THE KNIGHT AND THE DWARF.

T was a goodly pile, that Abbey of St. Nicholas in Tresco, or, as it was then called, Iniscaw,* embosomed, like a picture, in the setting of its brown hill, gleaming with heather blooms, and with golden furze. In every direction around it lay hamlets, and comfortable farm-houses, surrounded by cultivated lands, and meadows of deep green. Surely the good Fathers owned a fair heritage; and the state of their dependencies showed that, while enjoying a pleasant lot themselves, they dealt gently and kindly with those beneath their sway.

So was it in those days. Not then, as now, was the pilgrim or the wayfarer compelled to seek a venal welcome at the wayside inn. Not then, as now, was hospitality only to be bought. The first of the monastic virtues, and the one most worthily practised, was charity. Far and wide, through Christendom, were scattered those memorials of our Fathers' piety, those solemn Abbeys and Priories, buried in the dim religious shade of trees coeval with the foundation of the

Ynys-scao, Isle of Elders.

Is there anything more? A few antique graves are redolent of perfumes, was There is nothing here to

buildings, over which they bent so gracefully. And wherever arose one of those grey piles, there was to be found a sacred hospitality, a kindness dispensed alike to rich and poor,a practical lesson of love for God and man. Under the shelter of those walls grew up a loving tenantry, and, still lower in the scale, a body of peasants, connected with their superiors by ties of affection, and of reverence, and of benefits, both given and received. Go now to Scilly, and seek out the Abbey gates. Where are they? In a bright garden, full of the luxuriant beauty of tropical flowers and shrubs, you pass by two glorious aloes, and behold a grey wall, and a fine pointed arch. Yes, there is yet one relic more. scattered around; for this place, the burial ground of the Abbey. remind you of death. The ground is covered with a Mosaic of bright-eyed blossoms, and the air is heavy with fragrance. These grey stones, and ancient tombs, are all that is left of the great Abbey. If you would ask for the old Catholic hospitality on this spot, as of yore, it must be from the dead, whose mansions are lying about, and whose spirits may, peradventure, brood over the scene of a majesty decayed, and spoiled, and utterly laid waste. A hind, passing by, looks at you through the mossy arch; the wind moans round the fragments that remain, and the saddened stranger, gazing for a moment on the ruins of God's house, remembers what it once has been, and, with a sigh, turns sorrowfully

away.

Not such, however, was the appearance of the stately Abbey of St. Nicholas, in Tresco, about the middle of the

fourteenth century, on one fine morning, in May. The peace and dignified tranquillity, that generally characterised it, were gone. All was hot haste, and confusion, and hurrying to and fro. The reverend brethren paced the lofty walls, or passed from chamber to court, and from court to chamber, or gazed through the great gates, now opened wide, with distress and terror painted upon their countenances. From time to time a string of cattle, or of sheep, or of beasts of burden, entered the sacred precincts, while their drivers, accompanied by troops of women and children, outvied each other in their dismal tales, to which the monks listened, with faces as pale as those of the speakers. Every now and then, amid the disarray and uproar, there arrived a band of armed men, headed by some one of higher rank, who held lands of the Abbey by bridle and spear, and came, with his vassals, to discharge his feudal devoirs, by protecting it, and doing battle in its cause.

As troop after troop filed in, the military garnishing of the place became very respectable; and a casual observer would have smiled at the idea of danger to a stronghold so well defended. But the peril that menaced it was apparently of no common kind. In spite of the formidable muster of men-at-arms, and spearmen, and archers, and cross-bow men, that crowded the Abbey courts, the terror that existed before their coming did not seem to cease, nor were its inmates reassured by their presence. In the midst of the discordant shouting, and the absence of all order, and of all authority, the monks, and peasants, and troops, were mixed up together in a medley of inextricable confusion. No one was there of rank or of talent sufficient to entitle him to take the lead, as

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well as for others to acquiesce in his superiority. The only person to whom men would naturally have turned was the Abbot. But the good priest was well-nigh beside himself with dismay. He moved backwards and forwards, amid the crowd, as it ebbed and flowed, like a man paralyzed by some great shock. "Monseigneur St. Nicholas," was his constant and dolorous cry, "pity us, and come to our aid. Save us, for we perish, and there is none to deliver us. Monseigneur St. Nicholas, pray for us!"

The prayers and ejaculations of the worthy Abbot were, naithless, of small avail, towards the restoration of the peace so rudely disturbed. As drove, and flock, and horseman, and footman, passed into the monastery, it became evident that, spacious as were its limits, they would soon prove insufficient to accommodate the new comers. The retainers of the house, armed and equipped for service, stood in groups, or seated themselves to rest, here and there, while their leaders seemed to have abandoned the idea,-if such a one ever existed,-of establishing some discipline. After

a few ineffectual efforts, they let things take their course, and looked listlessly on. Now an order was issued to send forth scouts, to ascertain what was passing on the side from which danger was dreaded, and then it was countermanded, until thin lines of bluish smoke dotted the landscape, in ominous proximity to the Abbey, and the command was repeated, but it was unheard, or, if heard, unheeded. From time to time the man, stationed on the top of the great tower, as a lookout, reported the progress of the enemy, and, at every fresh intimation of the spoiler's approach, the Abbot's agony increased, and his appeals to Monseigneur St. Nicholas became

more incessant. One or two of the chief tenants tried to arrest the disorder that prevailed, and to induce the Abbot to second them. There could be but one result, were this state of things to continue. They saw this, and made an effort to amend matters. "Holy Father," they said, "it is time to hang out from the tower the great banner of the house, and to man the walls." But to these appeals the priest turned a deaf ear. His reply was still the same. "God, and Monseigneur St. Nicholas, be our aid!" he cried, "what can I, or what can any man, do in such a strait? Lo, I am a man of peace, what then know I of the battle or of blood? I will not trust in the arm of flesh, but in the weapons of the Spirit, and of prayer. Monseigneur St. Nicholas, aid us!" And the good followers of the Abbey, thorougly disheartened, shrugged their shoulders, and, great as might be the Abbot's faith in the help of his Patron Saint, seemed themselves to share but little in his devout trust. They went back to their men, with a look on their weatherbeaten brows that spake, as plainly as glance ever spake, of minds made up to meet the impending danger, but of hopelessness, and utter despair of success.

One of these men, who was past the prime of life, and had apparently seen some service, from the broad scar that traversed his sun-burnt forehead, was disposed to give vent to his discontent in words. He gazed sternly round upon the increasing crowds, whose din had become almost deafening, with no friendly or placable look. Then his eye wandered to the figure of the Abbot, who was standing still, in a lamentable state of bewilderment and indecision. "Aye," muttered the stout veteran, half in soliloquy, and half addressing himself

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